


In A Bottle

by Damkianna



Category: Sinbad (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Communication Failure, F/F, Fuckbuddies, Marooned, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: "If you'd just minded your own business—""—then you'd still be stuck here," Nala says coldly."But at least it wouldn't be withyou!"Or: Nala's rejoined the crew of theProvidence, and Rina's the only one who doesn't seem happy about it. Then she and Nala get trapped on a magical island where there's nothing to do except try to figure each other out, which means maybe they'll finally succeed.





	In A Bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



> You suggested being trapped on an island together and hatesex-to-fuckbuddies-to-lovers separately, Muccamukk, and yet somehow it became impossible not to combine them. :D Thank you so much for your continued enthusiasm over this show and these characters, and I hope very much that you enjoy this!

 

 

"Ten."

"Fifteen—"

"I have twelve," Nala says, "and I need to buy thread, too. Ten or nothing."

The cloth vendor's mouth pinches flat, and he flutters his hands in dramatic dismay and says, "Ah, what does it matter? It seems I am destined for the poorhouse in any case! Ten, then."

"Ten," Nala agrees, and folds the cloth over her arm before settling a neat stack of ten fulus in his palm.

The quality is good; fifteen wouldn't have been too much to ask. But Nala really does need that thread, and she only has more than twelve fulus if you count what is all the way back on the ship. The vendor would rather have a deal now than trust her to come back and complete a purchase later, anyway.

She turns away, smoothing a hand across the cloth as she walks. She doesn't even know yet what she wants to do with it—make a dress out of it, or embroider it and use it for a coverlet. Or maybe just a hanging curtain. She doesn't have a cabin on the _Providence_ these days, her old one is Tiger's now; and she likes to switch out the fabric that hangs around the space she's roped off for herself belowdecks. Change the scenery. And this will make good scenery: a nice rich red, gilt at the edges.

Halfway back down the street is Sinbad, just where she'd left him, insisting that it's only fair that he get a taste of those dates before he buys them—what if they've gone bad? Gunnar is beside him, leaning against the edge of the stall, silently amused; but he's got those massive arms crossed and is casting small measuring glances at the fruit merchant now and then, which is probably the only reason Sinbad hasn't been boxed about the head and told to go make trouble for someone else.

Tiger is a little further along, looking with careful attention at long strings of colorful beads, and Anwar is beyond her, trying not to drop anything—and also, judging by the look on his face, trying furiously to remember what else Cook had asked him to get. And Rina—

Nala slows, turns to look back and forth and back again, but no matter where she looks, she doesn't see Rina. Not even in part, as Nala has learned to expect, because Rina is so rarely visible all at once; not even the toss of that short bright hair, or narrow shoulders ducking through the crowd, or the ragged edges of half a dozen unhemmed skirts. Nothing.

Nala sighs through her nose. If Rina is off picking pockets, she may very well get them all in trouble, which they don't need; and if she's gotten _herself_ in trouble, then they should know about it sooner rather than later so they can get her out of it. And then yell at her for it.

But either way, they'll have to find her first. Nala tucks her cloth a little more securely over her arm, and then turns down the first grimy side-street she finds and starts to look.

 

 

*

 

 

Rina isn't in the first alley she tries, or in the tenth—Nala thinks it must be the thirteenth at least, and she isn't going to hesitate to tell Rina so, except—

Except Rina isn't alone. There's a man in the alley, too, and his clothes are a lot like Rina's—he's not a city guard, or anybody Rina would want to steal from, not wearing such scrounged-together shapeless things. Easy to tear, or to wriggle out of, if somebody caught you by them; that's how Rina had put it, once.

They both turn to look as the sound of Nala's footsteps reaches them, and the expressions on their faces are the same, too: wary, tense, like startled cats.

But then Rina recognizes Nala—Nala can tell by the way her brows draw down so sharply, the way she rolls her eyes and sighs. The man had been holding her by the wrist, but she pulls free just so she can cross her arms at Nala and glare before she says, "And what are _you_ doing here?"

"Looking for you," Nala says coolly. Because Rina must know that perfectly well; she's just making Nala say it anyway to give herself an excuse to get angry.

Not that she needs one. Everyone else had been perfectly happy to see Nala, when the _Providence_ had finally come back to Basra—and when she'd first mentioned to Sinbad that she wanted to be part of the crew again, he'd looked at her like he didn't know what she was talking about. "You were always part of the crew," he'd said. "You'll just be on the ship again now, that's all." After the first few days, even Tiger had seemed reasonably comfortable with her—she'd offered Nala a knife, observing bluntly that Nala didn't seem to have any of her own, and Nala had managed not to ask her whether she did that for everybody she met.

But Rina's hardly said ten words to Nala. She's barely looked at Nala, barely even acknowledged her existence. They haven't argued, they haven't fought—but that hasn't stopped Rina from acting like they have.

Now they will, though, Nala thinks, and she can't help thinking it with a sort of grim satisfaction. She's tried to be patient, she really has; but Rina gets under her skin just as well as ever, and there's something in her that's darkly pleased by the prospect of getting to shout at Rina the way she's been wanting to for days.

And, sure enough, Rina's face twists into a sneer, and Nala can't help but clench her fists.

"Nobody asked you to—"

"Nobody has to ask," Nala says evenly, and she means to explain that they're _crew_ , it wasn't as if nobody was going to notice Rina was gone, but she doesn't get the chance.

"Oh, no, of course not," Rina says, "because you'll stick your nose in anyway, like you always do—"

"You shouldn't go off alone—"

"Like I'm a lost goat," Rina mutters. "I can take care of myself, I don't need you after me all the time—"

"She's not wrong," the man says.

Nala blinks. She'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What?" Rina snaps.

"She's not wrong," the man repeats. "You should be more careful—but that won't help you this time."

The words mean nothing to Nala at first; it's Rina's sudden frown, the tension in her as she shifts all her weight away from him, that makes Nala hear them for the threat they are.

"What do you mean by that?" Nala says slowly—not that she expects him to answer, but it may at least buy them a little time. She reaches out and catches Rina by the arm, and Rina doesn't shake her off; Nala would rather have achieved that some other way, but if an odd stranger in an alley is what it takes—

"It doesn't matter," the man says, almost friendly, almost conversational; and then he flings out his arm, in a motion like a throw.

For a moment, Nala is thinking a dozen things—thinking of Tiger and knives, of whips; or maybe there's something in his sleeve that this motion will drop into his hand, a short stave or a blade; or maybe it's a signal to someone else behind them, someone they haven't noticed. She is expecting a clatter, a blow—some sort of pain.

So it's a surprise when all that happens is that she finds herself blinking into a lot of dust. Or, no, not just dust; it glitters strangely, tinged blue. Some sort of powder, and he's thrown it at them—and then all at once her knees are out from under her and everything is gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nala wakes up.

There is no alley. She's lying on—on sand, she thinks; she can see water and sky, and a few rough grains are sticking to the backs of her bare arms, her calves, her heels.

Her head aches a little, but she doesn't feel injured. She drags herself upright and for a moment is lightheaded, dizzy, but that's all.

Still, she's careful when she turns her head, because somehow it feels vaguely unsteady on her neck. She has time to observe the beach stretching away to one side, the way it rises from the sea into a slope with undergrowth, flowers, trees; and then her gaze trips over a body. Someone lying on the sand, limp, unmoving.

Rina.

Nala lurches up ungracefully, a sharp cold weight in her gut that feels a little like fear. "Rina," she says, and then again, louder, "Rina," and she rushes across the sand and then drops to her hands and knees, and carefully, carefully turns Rina onto her side—

"Ugh," Rina says blearily, blinking, and then she grimaces and shifts under Nala's hands and spits a bunch of sand out of her mouth. She'd been face-down, and her cheeks and forehead are covered with sand, too; she looks grumpy and half-awake and thoroughly, wonderfully alive.

"Good to see you, too," Nala tells her, not quite as flatly as she meant to, and brushes briskly at Rina's face until Rina scowls and slaps her hands away.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"I don't know," Nala says. "You don't recognize it?"

"Why would I recognize this place?" Rina snaps.

"Because it must have been that man who brought us here," Nala says, cool. "The man from the alley—you knew him, didn't you?"

She only means to say—Rina is so cagey, so careful; it's hard to imagine that she would stand and talk quietly in an alley alone with someone she _didn't_ know at least a little, someone she didn't have any reason to trust.

But of course Rina doesn't hear it that way. Her face twists, and she spits, "No better than you! What, you think I knew that he would—"

"No! I didn't say that—"

"You didn't need to," Rina says, and then pushes herself up off the sand so fast Nala has to jerk away to avoid being struck by her shoulder and arm.

"What was he saying to you?" Nala says, and she tries very hard to keep her tone even, but it's hard, _so_ hard, to leash her frustration around Rina. "When I found you, he was talking. Why would he do that if he didn't know you?"

"You should ask him that, not me," Rina snaps without looking up, brushing sand off her shirt and skirts with short, sharp flicks of her wrists.

"He is not here," Nala says, rising to her feet—and oh, she shouldn't, but at the same time she can't help but be pointed about it: dignified, precise in her movements, as precise as Rina was imprecise. "You are. And so am I, because whatever sort of trap this is, I am caught in it just as much as you—"

"As if it's my fault you couldn't keep your nose out!" Rina whirls, arms crossed, all pretense of studied inattention tossed away in favor of glaring at Nala ferociously. "If you'd just minded your own business—"

"—then you'd still be stuck here," Nala says coldly.

"But at least it wouldn't be with _you_ ," Rina cries, and she darts forward to shove at Nala with both hands before she spins around and stalks away down the beach.

 

 

*

 

 

It's clear that Rina doesn't intend to be helpful, or to make this easier in any way—not that Nala would have expected it. Nala stands on the beach alone and breathes slowly until she feels her jaw unclench; and then she turns the other direction, away from Rina's increasingly distant figure, and starts to walk.

First things first: Nala cannot be sure that they _are_ stuck here. There is no land on the horizon, but she can only see so much of it at once.

But she walks, and she walks, and still there is nothing—only the sea and the sky, and the place in the far distance where they meet. And the further she walks, the clearer it becomes that this is in fact an island, and not a particularly large one. Much smaller than the island where they had found Roisin the siren-girl. Yes, the shore rises away from the beach, and yes, there are trees; but when Nala leaves the beach and ventures up the slope, there are only a few low hills to cross before she is looking at the sea again.

Between the two highest rises of ground, there's something Nala might almost call a valley, if that did not make it sound much larger than it is. Through the leaves and undergrowth, she catches sight of something glinting, regular and measured lines—polished stone?—and for a moment her heart leaps.

But the pavilion, which is what it turns out to be, is empty. Which is to say there is no one in it; it does have a low table, and Nala climbs the wide steps leading up into it and discovers, of all things, silver trays covered in food.

She stares at it, and then blinks a few times, looks away and then back, just in case. But it doesn't vanish. Fruit—unspoiled—and meat, bread, pale cheese. Untouched; which perhaps at least means there are no animals on this island that they will need to guard against in the night.

Nala turns away from the inexplicable food, and sees that beside the pavilion there is also a spring, clear placid water that pools deep before overflowing into a small stream that winds away between the trees.

And that is more essential. They can go a little while without food, if they must; but if the spring is not fresh, the chance that they will live until the _Providence_ can come for them dwindles dramatically.

Nala kneels down, but the smell of sea-salt doesn't grow sharper than what is already carried on the wind. She dips her fingers into the spring and tastes just a little, first—and it is cool against her tongue and tastes as fresh as could be asked, and she's suddenly aware that she's desperately thirsty.

So she drinks, long and slow, and then climbs back up into the pavilion and takes a handful of grapes, breaks off a corner from the cheese. It's a beautiful day to be trapped on a mysterious island, she thinks, almost laughing; the sky is clear and blue, the day warm but a persistent breeze coming off the sea.

And then, just as she is trying to remember whether the sun was lower or higher when she first woke on the beach, Rina steps out from between the trees.

She hadn't had any more island to explore than Nala had—she was bound to run out eventually, Nala thinks. Of course she heads straight for the pavilion, scrambles up the steps without even looking at Nala, and reaches out—

"Don't," Nala says, grabbing her wrist before her hand can make it to the table, the trays.

"Oh, is this all yours, then? Did you—"

Nala manages not to rise to the temptation of calling her a thoughtless ass, and says instead, as calmly as she can, "I ate some, and I am waiting. If the sun moves another handswidth and I haven't died, then we will know it is all right."

Rina stares at her, and her arm softens in Nala's grip. For an instant, just an instant, Nala is permitted to savor the sensation of having managed to surprise her; and then Rina's mouth twists and she says, "Oh, please. That makes no sense! Who would leave all this here, poisoned?"

But she flops down next to Nala on the floor of the pavilion, instead of reaching for the trays again.

"Who would leave it here at all?" Nala says. "How much sense has any of this made?"

Rina sighs through her nose, and then lies back and folds her hands beneath her head. "None at all," she allows, and closes her eyes.

 

 

*

 

 

Nala does not die.

After a little while, Rina's stomach starts to growl, and Nala concedes that if she hasn't vomited yet, she probably won't. They sit and eat as the sun drops lower. And argue again, but only a little bit—about what will spoil first, whether they need to finish all the meat now or have any hope of drying it in the sun.

It could be worse. That is what Nala must remember. It could be worse.

It's easy to do while they are eating; Rina's was not the only empty stomach. But when they are done, and have sorted it all out as best they can into what might keep and what will not—

Nala can understand it, if she tries. There is—there is nothing to _do_. They have nowhere to go, nothing to accomplish; the pavilion is shelter enough for one night, at least, and they have food, water. The island does not need to be sailed, does not have any tasks or chores for its care that need to be done, and they have nothing with them except what they were wearing in that alley. Even Nala's length of cloth is gone. Nothing they might otherwise do—sew, in Nala's case; or pester Cook, in Rina's; or play boardgames with Sinbad, in either—is possible here.

And of course Rina would not take it well. But she also makes their forced inactivity impossible to ignore. She shifts, lies down and sits up and lies down again, and then stands and begins to pace. Nala feels like it would almost be bearable, tolerable, if only Rina would _sit still_.

"Go for a walk," she says at last, when she can't stand it any longer.

Rina snorts. "Where is there to walk to? You can probably shout from one end of this island to the other—"

"Go for a swim, then," Nala amends, and she doesn't know it just then, but that is her mistake.

 

 

*

 

 

Rina does go for a swim. More specifically, she sniffs and tosses her head and turns her back on Nala, and then stomps away through the trees. Nala lies back deliberately on the sun-warmed stone of the pavilion, closes her eyes, and—

There is nothing to do. It shouldn't surprise her, then, to catch herself holding her breath and listening—wondering if that small splash is Rina, or a wave, or just her own imagination. After all, there is nothing else to listen for; there is nothing else to occupy her. The only other thing on all this island is Rina, and Nala told her to go swimming, and now that is all she can think about.

She puts an arm over her face, twists her head to press her hot cheek to the stone. It doesn't matter whether there is a pile of ragged clothes lying alone on the beach, she tells herself distantly, firmly. Rina has never been shy; on hot days on the _Providence_ , she often stripped off all her clothes and leapt into the sea. Saved trying to wash the salt out later, she liked to say, and of course Rina was that lazy, Nala had thought. And Nala had always rolled her eyes and shaken her head and—and found something else to do, somewhere else to look.

But there is nothing to do here.

At first she thinks that perhaps focusing on how irritated she is with Rina will help. But somehow instead it only mixes together—the hot flush of frustration, the way her hands and jaw and thighs want to clench, how much she has sometimes wanted to just _grab_ Rina and—and—

"Happy now?" Rina says, and Nala manages not to startle.

She shifts her arm up off her face and cracks an eye open slowly, to demonstrate to Rina just how little Nala's happiness depends on her.

Rina is damp. She has put her clothes back on, but her neck, her arms, are gleaming and wet, her hair flat and draggling and sticking to her cheeks. A breeze sweeps by and raises goosebumps along the curve of Rina's shoulder; Nala watches this and feels herself shiver even though she is not cold, and then belatedly drags her gaze away.

Yes—it was a mistake to send Rina off to swim, she thinks.

"That depends," she says, and is distantly surprised by how steady her own voice sounds. "Are you ready to stop fidgeting and complaining like a child?"

"Oh, I'm so _sorry_ I'm not dignified enough for your taste," Rina sneers. "As if being trapped here weren't unpleasant enough—of course you'll make it worse every chance you get."

And that is quite enough. Nala should not sink to Rina's level, she knows that very well; but she has been trying so hard to be careful of Rina ever since she came back to the _Providence_ , and Rina has given her nothing in return. She is so _tired_ of this: of always being the only one to make an effort, of always being the only one reaching out.

"Perhaps it would not be so unpleasant," Nala says coldly, "if _you_ were less unpleasant."

"Me—!"

"Yes, you!" Nala says, sitting up just so she can jab a finger into Rina's face. "You have been nothing _but_ unpleasant, ever since I returned to the ship. What is _wrong_ with you? Did I somehow manage to insult or offend you, even when I wasn't there? How very impressive—"

"Shut up!" Rina yells, and throws herself at Nala.

It shouldn't be a surprise. It has been a long time since they came to blows, and then only briefly—but everything about this day seems to have been building toward it, and Rina has never hesitated to make a situation worse.

Still, it is a bright shock to suddenly have Rina over her like this, Rina's hands striking her shoulders, Rina's knees digging at her hips. Rina came at her from an angle; they roll, Rina's damp hair flying, pale shoulders bumping Nala's, and then fetch up against the low table with a rattle. Rina makes an inarticulate sound and rears back, swings an elbow in toward Nala's face, but Nala catches it in one hand and feels her fingers skid in the water that is still clinging to Rina's skin.

"Rina—"

"Shut _up_ ," Rina says, lower, ragged, and digs her free hand into Nala's braids, winds her fingers tight; Nala winces, gropes for Rina's wrist and finds it, and then all at once realizes one of Rina's knees is not beside her hip anymore. It is—it is between her thighs, and if Rina shifts her weight then it will press in, exactly where Nala does and does not want it most—

Rina shifts her weight, trying to jerk her elbow out of Nala's grip, and Nala can't help but suck in a gasp and dig her teeth into her lip.

They both go still. Nala dares to look, and Rina's eyes are sharp on her face, expression unreadable—no, wait, Rina's eyes are sharp on her _mouth_ , on her lip where she is biting into it.

"So," Rina murmurs, "not always so dignified, then," and suddenly her grip in Nala's hair has changed.

It is not—they are not kind to each other. It angers Nala all over again to have this made into a question of her dignity, as if that were the obstacle—as if she has ever been the one making this difficult. She gets an arm around the small of Rina's back and yanks her down, rolls them away from the table a half-turn so that Rina is underneath, so Nala can hitch them closer without Rina moving away. Because Rina _would_ move away, just to frustrate them both—

"Ah," Rina says, and it sounds breathless and unintentional in a way Nala finds grimly satisfying. She jerks against Nala, fingers tightening in Nala's hair, and then rolls her hips more fluidly against Nala's thigh, and Nala presses down against her and tries to figure out exactly how many skirts her hand will need to make its way under.

And then she loses concentration entirely when Rina rolls up into her again, the hot low spark of it making her arm tighten around Rina's back.

"Don't make this complicated," Rina's muttering against Nala's temple. For a moment that only makes Nala want more to get a hand between her thighs, just to annoy her—but it is almost as gratifying simply to have her here, underneath Nala, pinned down and shuddering and only arguing a little bit.

There is no rhythm in it. They don't need any. It had never been far off, for Nala, not after all the time she spent lying there thinking about Rina in the sea; and Rina had—had perhaps done something other than just swim, it occurs to Nala, which is all it takes for the wave to finally crash over her. She opens her mouth against Rina's throat, Rina's shoulder, and gasps and shakes with it, and when she licks her lips afterward they taste like seawater.

And Rina doesn't take much longer. Nala slides her hand down the curve of Rina's spine and then over to her hip, urges her up and and murmurs, "Come on, then," and Rina swears at her and arches and clenches her thighs, and Nala can feel her tremble through it.

They stay as they are for a moment, pressed close, breathing hard. And then Nala eases sideways—just to keep her weight off Rina, but Rina takes it as a cue and rolls away.

Not out of reach, at least. The sun has set, now; Nala watches the sky darken, and falls asleep waiting to see whether Rina will say anything.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, everything is the same.

It is, in fact, too much the same: Nala wakes and sits up, and the first thing she sees is the silver trays on the table, with all the food. _All_ of it—even the things they had eaten yesterday. Rina took an orange, left the peels curled at the corner of the table; now the peels are gone, and there is a new orange, untouched.

Well. That is good to know.

But yesterday did happen, Nala is sure about that. For one thing, she has woken up in the pavilion, not on the beach all over again. For another, there is sweat and leftover stickiness in telling places. And for a third, Rina is gone.

Nala should have known. She closes her eyes and presses her knuckles to her brow, shoving away the shadow of a headache that lurks there, and climbs down the steps to drink some water and wash her face. Patience, she tells herself, and she sits in the pavilion and waits. Rina likes to eat; she'll have to come back sometime.

 

 

*

 

 

It doesn't take as long as Nala might have expected. She hears Rina's footsteps, first—there's no mistaking them, there seems to be nothing else on this island big enough to disturb the brush.

And Rina at least does not look angry. Nala is surprised to be able to meet her eyes, and more surprised that Rina does not look away; but she doesn't. She's watching Nala right back, and her expression is unreadable but that steady wary stare says she is gauging, assessing. Looking for something.

"The food is back," Nala says, and Rina flicks a glance at it and then keeps looking at Nala.

"Yes," Rina says. "At least we won't starve."

"So it seems," Nala agrees—inane, she sounds so stupid, but her tongue feels clumsy in her mouth and she can't think of anything better. At least they are not fighting.

"Fantastic," Rina says. "We can stay stuck here forever."

Nala frowns at her. "Not forever. Sooner or later the _Providence_ will find us."

Rina snorts and looks away, then. But she doesn't disagree; and Nala tells herself that it would be the height of foolishness to wish that she would.

Because it would. There is no need to push. After all, there is nowhere for Rina to go, nowhere she can run away to or hide. They are trapped here together, and that means they will sort this out for themselves sooner or later.

 

 

*

 

 

Rina picks her way through the fresh food in silence for a while, and then wanders off again toward the beach to do who-knows-what. Nala carefully goes in the opposite direction, bathes herself in the ocean and then spends a little while sitting on a small outcropping with her feet in the water, thinking about anything except Rina. It really is a lovely little island; it's only being stuck here that makes it unpleasant. Nala can imagine how Sinbad will laugh at them for it, when the _Providence_ comes at last: _Oh, yes, fresh water and all the food you can eat, sandy beaches and fine weather—it sounds terrible! You're so lucky we came to rescue you._

Of course as the sun drops low they both get hungry. This time Rina is the one who arrives first, and she is already in the pavilion, leaning over a tray, by the time Nala makes her way back.

They eat in relative peace. There is a small squabble over the last pomegranate, until Nala says, "There will be another tomorrow!"

Which of course only makes Rina glare and clutch the pomegranate closer, and say, "Then you can eat that one!"

But even that is not very bad, for them. Nala rolls her eyes and throws up her hands and gives in, and then pays Rina back by taking the last chunk of the pale soft cheese Rina likes best.

And then, once they've slowed, Rina angles a speculative glance out at the trees and says, "You know, I bet we could build a raft."

Nala raises an eyebrow. "I am sure we could," she agrees. "But why would we?"

Rina turns to stare at her incredulously. "Oh, hmm, I don't know—so we can get off this island?"

"For all we know," Nala says, "the _Providence_ has already figured out where we are, and is coming for us. Building a raft and floating away from here will only make it harder for them to find us."

"For all we know," Rina says, "they have no idea where to even start looking!"

"Do we know any better?" Nala gestures toward the sky—they know which way is east, now, and land should be to their north, but that is hardly enough to risk their lives over. "Tell me, then, which way we should go. Where is the shore, and how far away? If there is a storm on the ocean, what will we do? If all we achieve is to wash up on another island, one that is not hospitable enough to have fresh water or magic food—"

"All right, all right," Rina snaps, shoulders hunched and tone belligerent. The way she gets when she feels defensive, Nala thinks; the way she gets when she is afraid. Which does not make very much sense, and yet the way she is sitting, the way her gaze is leaping so restlessly—she is afraid of something, Nala decides. And she is trying to guess what it might be when Rina's stare lands on her, and Rina swallows and then reaches out and shoves her in the shoulder.

That was barely even a fight. But she is—is she trying to make it one? Why would she ever—

And then suddenly everything spins around Nala, reorients itself, and she tries to swallow a laugh and almost chokes on it instead.

"Really," she says, as snide as she can make it. "You couldn't just ask."

"What are you talking about?" Rina spits, but Nala ignores it. Because of course Rina couldn't ask; of course she couldn't. This was the closest she could get: an invitation, and barely even that, sour and prickly and persistent, camouflaged as anything but.

"We don't have to punch each other first, you know," Nala tells her, and closes her hand around Rina's wrist—just for a moment, just to feel all that narrow bony tension caught in her grip; and then she lets go and skims her fingers up Rina's arm.

"I like punching you," Rina mutters, but doesn't do it. She just sits there, watching Nala through her eyelashes, and lets Nala come to her and push her down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As the days pass by, they find something not unlike a routine.

They wake with the sun, and eat together comfortably enough in the mornings. For most of the day, they leave each other be, but both of them always come back to the pavilion in the evening. And, more often than not, when the sun drops low and the sky goes red, they reach for each other.

Rina first, most of the time. Never just to touch—it's always a push or a shove, but that, Nala learns, means it is all right to touch her after. If Nala tries first, Rina will slap her hands away, bite out something cruel that she probably doesn't mean and then go sit on the pavilion steps alone and not come back. Nala only makes that mistake a couple of times before catching on.

And there's no purpose in arguing about it. Nala feels something inside herself start to settle, within a few days; it really is a very nice island, and impatience will get her nowhere. If Rina needs this to—to have rules, needs to come up with convoluted ways to make herself comfortable, then Nala may as well let her. Either she will relax or she will not; either she will realize it is all stupid or she will not. Nala trying to talk to her about it will surely only make her draw away further.

And—well. Nala—

Nala does not want to make her draw away.

It starts to seem foolish, though, to spend all the day alone. Nala stops trying to avoid Rina so strictly—the island is very small, after all, and if Rina is so bothered by the idea that Nala will sometimes be within her line of sight, then _she_ can find another stretch of beach.

But she doesn't. The first time, Nala finds Rina doing something with stacks of pebbles in the sand—and does not walk up to her, does not say anything, only stays in sight of her. Rina is not the only one who likes to swim; and not the only one who doesn't want to crouch by the spring washing salt from her only set of clothes. It's only reasonable, Nala tells herself, and she strips down on the beach like no one else is there and ignores the heat that rises into her face.

She swims until she feels cooler, cooler and a little hungry. And when she climbs back out of the water, she thinks she sees Rina's pale face in the distance turned toward her, and then hastily away.

They find things to do. Not real tasks, only whatever will pass the time. Nala makes chains of flowers—the blooms are like the food, no matter how many of them Nala picks they are always back in place in the morning, fresh and new. They build things out of sand on the beach, sculpt towers and buildings. Separately, at first, but their constructions creep closer to each other until one day Nala deliberately joins them with a wobbly reed bridge. Rina rolls her eyes at it—but she doesn't knock it down.

Rina finds pieces of wood and scrapes at them with stones, making lumpy half-formed shapes that never quite become anything before they vanish overnight. They draw things in the sand—places, people, and then a board where they can play with sets of differently-colored pebbles instead of pieces.

It all seems to have settled down into something—not quite easy, not like that, not with all the places where their rough edges still rub each other the wrong way. But something understandable, predictable.

Which is why Nala isn't expecting it when Rina starts to change the rules.

 

 

*

 

 

Rina gives her no warning, says nothing. They are curving into each other on the floor beside the table—Rina overhead this time, settling onto Nala's thighs with an impatient little sigh. The light coming low from the west is dim and gold against her face, and her eyes are dark, in shadow.

Nala looks up at her and then closes her own eyes, fighting suddenly with some sharp-edged unwieldy feeling that is trying to wedge itself into her chest; and so the first she knows of any of it is when one of Rina's narrow hands curls around the back of her neck. And then, all at once, they are kissing.

It is a mess—rough, hot, teeth catching; but then it's Rina, after all. It's Rina, Nala thinks distantly, and she leans up until her neck aches and kisses back.

Rina doesn't seem to notice, or if she does she doesn't trust it. When she breaks away, her shoulders are tight under Nala's hands, braced, ready to be pushed away.

Which is stupid. "Don't be stupid," Nala says, and drags her back down to kiss her some more, one hand against her jaw, her cheek, and the other working its way beneath those ten thousand skirts.

After that, Rina seems to want to treat Nala's acceptance as a dare—as a reason to see exactly how far she can go, how much Nala will allow her. They don't save it for evening anymore, for the times when they are half in the dark; Rina will reach out and settle into Nala's lap in the middle of the day, or first thing in the morning when they are only half-awake, or on the beach, rolling around, half-in and half-out of the water. And always, something in her eyes or her face is testing, teasing: _This? And this? And this—_

So Nala always lets her. They've always been so well-matched, and they are in this as in everything else—it becomes a matter of pride, to take it all. To raise an eyebrow and lie back: _Nothing you can do is too much. Not this, or this, or this—_

It's not as though it is a hardship. To have Rina, any way she will give herself over. Wild, scratching and biting; or shifting sleepily, rhythmically, against Nala in the early morning, soft and selfish and warm; or tugging Nala down with a splash to kiss her, sand on their cheeks and chins scraping.

None of it is too much. None of it is enough to make Nala let go.

 

 

*

 

 

Which is, perhaps, why Rina finally talks to her.

Not that they've been doing all this in silence. Teasing, scolding each other, arguing over who smells worst and whose clothes are dirtier.

(Trying to wash in the little spring is annoying and difficult. But on laundry days, because they have only one set of clothing each, they are both naked until everything is dry. So it is not all bad.)

But then one day, when Nala has not even tried to press her about it—when they have been sitting together, quiet and contented, tossing stones one by one into the sea—she says, "I didn't know him."

"Hm?"

"The man in the alley," Rina says easily, as though it doesn't matter; and Nala had been drowsing a little but now feels wide awake, though she is careful not to tense up or stare.

"You didn't," she repeats after a moment, neutral, and throws another stone.

"No," Rina says, over the distant splash. "He said he knew—someone else. Someone who helped me once when I needed it," and her eyes flicker toward Nala and then away. Something in her face makes Nala think of another day entirely, another island; Anwar after, on the ship, saying haltingly, _Her family, it was—they—I'm not sure I should tell you._

"And you thought he had a message," Nala guesses, "or—that you could help them in return?"

But no, no, already she has managed to do something wrong: Rina's face is twisting up, grim and unhappy. "It doesn't matter," she says, low and flat. "It doesn't—it was stupid. I should have known better than to go with him. I _did_ know better, I just let myself forget it—"

She bites her lip so hard it goes white around her teeth, scrabbles for another stone and hurls it.

And she isn't angry at Nala this time. She's angry at herself, for—for what? Wanting something, maybe. Hoping.

"It's not wrong to care about people," Nala says slowly, trying to decide how to say this in a way Rina will listen to. "Or to want to help them, or to trust them. I mean—sometimes it's a mistake. But not always."

Rina throws another stone, and doesn't say anything.

"The crew—" Nala tries, but doesn't get any further than that.

"The crew, the crew," Rina echoes, mocking, mouth angled sharply down at the corner. "The _Providence_ will come for us, we just have to wait! I know, I know—you've said it more than enough times. So where are they, then, hmm? It's been _weeks_. Where are they?" She shakes her head, grabs a whole handful of stones and throws them all at once in a weak low arc, and then, almost an extension of the same motions, throws herself up off the sand. "This was stupid—we were stupid to wait here. As if they would know, as if they could find us. As if they wouldn't leave us—"

"They wouldn't!"

"Why not?" and now Rina is almost shouting, face red, fists clenched. "Why not? Why should I even listen to you? _You_ did—"

"But I came back—"

"But you _left_. You—" and there, startling, Rina's voice cracks; she closes her mouth, bites her lip, but doesn't look away.

She's breathing hard, glaring down at Nala, or—or trying to, except there's something happening to her face, something that looks to Nala like—

"You left," Rina says again, much more quietly, and then she turns around and walks away.

 

 

*

 

 

It should have happened right then. Nala sitting there, watching Rina grow smaller, pressing her hands flat against the sand so they'll stop shaking—it should have happened then.

But it takes until sunset for the sky to crack.

Nala doesn't notice anything at first. She's still how Rina left her, smoothing her fingers across their little pile of throwing stones and looking at the water, the sand, where the waves are finally lapping up to wash away her and Rina's paired footprints from the morning.

And then something about the light changes. Sharp, bright—startling, at this time of day, and Nala flinches, thinking it must be lightning, except there is no thunder and it's only getting brighter.

She looks up, a hand raised to shield her eyes, and it's—there's a crack. There is no other way to say it. The sky is splintering across its length, incomprehensible, white light gleaming through as if somehow from behind the red-gold sunset sky.

Nala finds herself on her feet, and, unthinking, starts to run. As if it will help, as if it will do any good—but the pavilion is the only landmark on the island, the only place to run to.

Leaves whip at her face as she crashes through the trees, and then she stumbles out into the clear little valley and Rina is already there. She comes halfway down the steps as Nala trips her way halfway up them, and grabs for Nala's hand as the light gets brighter, blinding—

And then all the world falls apart around them, and when Nala opens her eyes again they are standing in a room, surrounded by glittering shards of glass.

"I really didn't think that was going to work," Sinbad says, blinking at her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing they have to do is, apparently, get out of there.

"We'll explain later," Sinbad says immediately.

He starts to hustle toward them, already glancing over his shoulder, except then Anwar grabs his arm and says, "Wait! Wait, there's still glass everywhere—"

"It's all right," Gunnar says, and crunches across it in his boots—he lifts Rina by the waist, swings her around and sets her down where the floor is clear and ignores it when she kicks at him. And then he raises his eyebrows at Nala, and when she nods he does the same for her, careful, arms warm and steady under her hands.

"Oh, but she gets asked first before you pick her up—"

"Is that really the question you want answered right now?" Gunnar says mildly, tilting his head; and then there's a sound from outside.

"Out the back," Tiger says, decisive, and they go.

The streets outside are unfamiliar—not the same city they were in before, with the market and the alley. But the rest of the crew seems to know their way through the maze of streets that lead to the docks, and then they scramble their way aboard the _Providence_ and immediately cast off.

And then, when they have safely cleared the harbor—that is when it all comes out.

"The bottom line is," Sinbad explains, "the prince of the city," and he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the lights of the harbor they just left behind, " _really_ doesn't like you."

"What?" Nala says. "Why?"

But Rina doesn't look confused. She sniffs and says, "Look, nobody _needs_ that many crowns."

"He hired that guy to find you," Sinbad says, instead of telling Rina what an idiot she is, "and I guess that guy wasn't interested in having to carry you around hogtied all the time. So he found somebody _else_ to put you in a—" He stops, stymied. "It was—"

"Glass," Tiger supplies. "A globe."

"Much too small to fit either one of you," Anwar adds, "which really doesn't make any sense," and then, when Rina glares at him, "but, well. Never mind that."

" _Fortunately_ ," Sinbad says a little more loudly, "Taryn could still find you. There's some creepy chicken blood thing she can do that—well. Anyway. She figured out where you were being kept, and then we sort of—broke things until we found you."

"And then we did!" Anwar concludes. "And you're all right. Aren't you?"

"Yes," Nala says, because it's true. She had plenty of chances to feel it while they were running, and there doesn't seem to be any glass in her feet.

Rina doesn't say anything. Sinbad glances back and forth between them, quick, brow furrowing just a little, and then asks more slowly, "What was it like, in there?"

"Boring," Rina says, looking away.

"It was—there was an island," Nala says. "Not very large. Food and fresh water. It wasn't uncomfortable." She can't work out what else to say—not with Rina right there and her eyes down, her face so blank. This isn't the conversation she needs to be having, but it's—where can she even start? If Rina will even let her. They're not on the island anymore, after all; there's no glass world holding Rina in.

Rina can run away from her, now, and there's nothing Nala can do to stop her.

 

 

*

 

 

Except, of course, that's not quite true.

It hadn't occurred to Nala before, not in all the time they were trapped; but the _Providence_ is a lot like the island in its own way. There is more to do, and other people, and places for them all to go—but the ship is also its own little world, limited and defined, and when they are out on the ocean, there are very few places to run.

It's funny, in a way, that Rina should have chosen such a place for a home. And maybe, Nala thinks, that means something. Maybe she likes keeping close, being held onto, a little bit better than she thinks she does.

She waits for the sunset, because in a strange way that still feels to her like their time—even on the worst days, when they pushed each other away and shouted at each other and were their most unkind, they still came back to the pavilion at sunset. They still came to be in the same place and sit together, then.

So, at sunset, the day after they get out, she walks up to where Rina is sitting in the bow. She stands there for a moment looking out at the ocean, and then she says, just loud enough for Rina to hear, "So did you."

Rina doesn't look up—but her brow wrinkles. She's confused, though of course she won't ask Nala to explain.

Nala sighs through her nose and then does it anyway. "At the House of Games," she elaborates. "You left us, or at least you tried to."

"Yes, but I—" and then Rina cuts herself off.

But Nala knows what she was about to say. "Came back," Nala finishes for her, and sits down beside her, folding her legs up beneath her with careful dignity.

Rina glances at her, and Nala catches the briefest impression of her face—wide dark eyes, pale cheeks, mouth pinched small and unhappy—before she looks away again.

"Rina," Nala says gently. "Rina," and she reaches out.

She'd tried more than once on the island, before she'd decided it was better not to; she'd tried touching Rina first, and Rina had never let her. But this time—Rina is tense under her fingers, tight and trembling like the skin of a drum, but this time, at last, she doesn't shove Nala away.

"It's all right to not want to leave anymore, you know," Nala tells her, very soft. "You have to know—it's all right."

"No, you have to leave," Rina says, abstracted, as though she's talking more to herself than to Nala. "You're always going to have to leave sooner or later, and it's—it's better, easier, if you can want to; if you can make yourself want to—"

"No," Nala says again, stern this time, the way she's learned to say things when she wants to make them true. "You don't have to go anywhere. Just stay here. Stay with me."

It's hard to say, scrapes her throat on the way out and leaves it hoarse and stinging. They've always been so well-matched, Nala reminds herself distantly, and in this as in everything: Nala, too, likes to tell herself that she needs no one, that she stands alone. It's a difficult habit to break; and she can't ask Rina to try for her without trying for Rina herself.

"Stay with me," she says again, and it comes out a little easier the second time.

Rina is staring at her, startled. Nala leans in to catch her mouth and wraps her arms around Rina's shoulders and doesn't, doesn't, let go; and Rina stays where she is and lets Nala kiss her, which is, maybe, a yes.

 

 


End file.
